


Familiar Faces

by AuralQueer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Gore, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuralQueer/pseuds/AuralQueer
Summary: Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: "Forced to Watch"They’re in a corridor. That corridor doesn’t exist. Tim’s brain hurts: as if he’s been staring at static on a television for too long. His nose bleeds intermittently and bile keeps jumping up to the back of his throat and the whole time sunny yellow flowers smile at him on the impossible walls of this impossible corridor and Tim thinks, probably, somewhere under the pain and the confusion that he’s never been this angry. (Except that he has. Except that he’s been angrier. He just doesn’t think about that, because if he does then he’s going to pick a fight with another monster just so that the whole damn circus will finally stop.)





	Familiar Faces

They’re in a corridor. That corridor doesn’t exist. Tim’s brain hurts: as if he’s been staring at static on a television for too long. His nose bleeds intermittently and bile keeps jumping up to the back of his throat and the whole time sunny yellow flowers smile at him on the impossible walls of this impossible corridor and Tim thinks, probably, somewhere under the pain and the confusion that he’s never been this angry. (Except that he has. Except that he’s been angrier. He just doesn’t think about that, because if he does then he’s going to pick a fight with another monster just so that the whole damn circus will finally stop.)

Martin’s hand is in his, and Tim’s pretty sure it’s the only reason he hasn’t just thrown himself at a wall already. Martin’s voice is high and his breathing is fast but he holds Tim tightly and he doesn’t seem to want to let go and sometimes Tim thinks that everything about him that’s still human exists at the point where their fingers interlock.

The floor sways and tilts like the bottom of a ship and Tim’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory again without throwing up and the walls ripple and then suddenly Martin is jerked out of his hand.

It’s like losing a limb. Tim can’t focus on anything past the whirling colours spinning around the edges of his vision like a kaleidoscopic nightmare, but the sudden absence of Martin’s sweaty palm, cold with fear but strong with it too, feels like having his heart scooped out of his chest and dropped into the void. He can feel panic rising as his heart thuds against his ribcage too fast to be healthy and he raises his voice and hopes his shouting gives the thing stalking them here a headache.

“MARTIN! Martin! Where are you?”

It’s done this before, or something like it. Made them think they were other people, or gone, or vanished. Tim thought that Martin thinking he was Jon was the worst of it: the relief on his face and then the utter disappointment that their stupid prick of a boss wasn’t the one stuck in whirligig hell with them. That he hadn’t come to save them, because of course he hadn’t, because he never would. But that was nothing compared to the despair when the thing that ruled these endless corridors made Tim look like Martin’s mother. It was the despair that did it. Like somehow his mother coming to help him was more impossible than anything else so far. Like that was what proved they were lost forever.

(Martin has looked like Danny out of the corner of Tim’s eye ever since they got here. And hell, maybe sometimes when it’s just their hands and Tim isn’t looking at him, Tim can pretend he isn’t alone here. He can pretend he has his brother back and they’re going to be ok because they have each other and they can survive together. But then Martin says something and the illusion shatters and Tim tries very hard not to be angry with him for it.)

The corridor has stopped swirling, and Martin reappears pressed against a sky blue wall covered in cartoon rainbows, his torso and wrists and ankles caught by the curling brass vines of decorative lamps. He looks at Tim, and he’s pale, even paler than he has been, and his eyes are wide and he opens his mouth and time slows to a trickle. Tim moves, but he can’t move as fast as he should, and something steps out of the wall. Its head is dripping with golden curls as if it were executed by a renaissance painter on the edge of madness. Its fingers are far too long, and they twist and coil at impossible angles like gold chains left too long in a jewellery box. It smiles at Tim, and it’s smile pushes just past the edges of its cheeks.

Its pupils are pulled into spirals like ink in water through the bright blue of its eyes. It reaches out with its curling fingers and Tim can feel the inception of a shout building in his belly that takes too long to reach his throat, as the thing pushes him hard and his back hits the wall. But then the wall gives like wet clay, and the thing pushes him into it, and the wall sucks around Tim’s arms and chest and legs until he’s half buried in it.

Time speeds up and Tim is trapped and he can barely breathe and he’s buried in the fucking wall and he screams and it’s not so much fear as it is frustration. The thing in front of him laughs, and its laugh riddles his brain with papercuts and Tim squeezes his eyes shut, choking on his own pain. Martin makes a high pitched noise of panic and Tim’s been stuck here with him long enough to know that it’s worry for Tim and not himself.

“Leave - Leave him alone, Michael. Let him go. You…” Martin blushes, but keeps staring up at the thing that’s curled over him like an adult in a child’s playhouse, back curled against the ceiling of the corridor seven feet above the ground. “You can have me. Just let him go.”

The thing reaches out with its impossible fingers and brushes the backs of its knuckles across his cheeks, leaving long red cuts in its place. Martin can’t quite bite back a whimper as it does, and it turns its head back to Tim, who’s staring at the two of them and straining against the plaster in the wall. “What if I want both of you? It’s more fun if he watches. See.” The thing turns back to Martin, and presses its thumb into his shoulder. Blood spurts out the wound and begins to soak Martin’s jumper, the colour of crushed cherries. Martin screams, and Tim can’t breathe.

“Stop it. Stop it, now, or I swear to god I’ll find a way to kill you.”

The thing laughs again, and its thumb is still stuck in Martin’s shoulder, and its laugh bounces at impossible angles from the twisting walls. “You think I fear the End? I dream of it sometimes, in my sweetest nightmares.” It pulls its thumb back, and its skin is dripping red, and Tim wants to throw up. “No.” The thing traces its hand very lightly over Martin’s neck, and Martin’s whole body shivers as it grazes cuts across his skin. “You’re such an angry little eye. I want to make you madder.” The thing giggles, and Tim’s stomach churns. “Do you get it? Because I am mad, and soon you will be too.”

Then it twists its wrist and shoves four of its fingers into Martin’s ribcage. Martin squeals and it grows into a scream and breaks into a sob and blood seeps down his jumper in four terrible lines as he writhes beneath Michael’s hand and Tim can’t breathe because there’s no way anyone can survive that and he can’t be alone here and he can’t watch someone else die.

“Stop! You’ll kill him! Please, just stop. Please.” Tim voice is hoarse, and Michael pulls its fingers back slowly, hand now red with Martin’s blood. The blood drips onto the floor of the corridor and the salt and metal tang of it sticks to the roof of Tim’s mouth and fills his lungs every time he breathes. Martin is shuddering, chest jerking as he breathes erratically. Tim watches him, waiting for him to start coughing up blood from the lungs which must have been punctured by now.

Michael pets Martin’s hair, and the red stains his curls as Martin flinches and shudders away from him, whimpering as he jerks at his injuries. “I’m not going to kill him, Assistant.” Michael’s voice is quiet. “His death would give you peace. You wouldn’t have to worry about what he saw what you looked at you.” Michael’s fingers tangle in Martin’s hair and jerk his head up until he opens his eyes, blinking dizzily to stare across the corridor at Tim. Tim isn’t sure when he started crying, but he sees the sympathy hit Martin’s expression. He thinks it should be impossible that Martin cares about anything anymore, least of all him. Michael’s words twist in spirals around the walls. “Does he blame you? Does he forgive you? Does he hate you?” Michael’s fingers jerk at Martin’s hair, and Martin whimpers and goes red. Michael coos, bending so close that his breath must be falling onto Martin’s face. “I think he’ll be ashamed. I think every time he looks at you now, he’ll remember this moment. And he’ll be humiliated. And he’ll want to hide.” Martin sniffs, and raises his chin.

“It’s not true. It lies, Tim. That’s its whole fucking thing. Just, don’t worry, it’s going to be ok.” Martin tries to smile, and there’s blood flecked across his face and Tim doesn’t think he could be standing on his own right now and he has no idea how he never noticed before but he thinks Martin Blackwood is one of the bravest men he’s ever met.

“I thought you weren’t legally allowed to swear.” He says, and he tries to ignore the way his voice breaks.

Martin’s mouth jumps into a wobbly grin. “Yeah, well, we’re in a hell dimension so I figured when in Rome…”

“That’s quite enough of that.” Michael’s voice, petulant and echoing, is all the warning either of them gets before it sinks its hand into Martin’s thigh and Martin keens, sagging forward into its grip on his hair as he sobs in pain. Tim swallows the vomit that rises in his throat and pushes again at the wall so hard that his chest and legs ache with the force of it.

“Can’t you just - please, can’t you just. You can make illusions. Use those. You want to make me angry? You could do much worse to me with what isn’t real. Leave him alone. Please just leave him alone.” Tim isn’t sure he’s making sense any more. Part of his brain keeps trying to superimpose Martin: shy and pretty and kind, Martin with cups of tea and blushes and a little too earnest to make friends easily, Martin who was 6”4 and curled himself into being unnoticed but still had time for everyone, Martin who everyone knew gave the best secret santa gifts - Tim’s mind keeps layering him over the bloody, weeping mess in front of him being slowly eviscerated against the wall. He’s not sure how much more he can take.

But then Martin’s face ripples and it’s Danny and Tim can’t breathe and it has nothing to do with the wall. He doesn’t know what he says. He thinks he’s crying. Because Danny has no skin and there are too many colours and Tim thinks he can hear the clicking of plastic just out of the corner of his ears and it’s too much.

And then he’s on his knees on the floor, sobbing, and the corridor is suddenly dark. He thinks he hears Michael’s voice, somewhere, in the back of his head, whispering. “Do not give ideas to monsters, little boy.”

It takes a long time for Tim to find his way back to his mind. When he does, his throat is hoarse and his eyes are stinging and his head aches. His face is a mess of snot and tears and spit and there’s something cool and thick and sticky under his hands. Tim blinks, and wipes his face with his sleeves roughly, letting the fabric grazing his skin help ground him in reality. His knees hurt, and plaster crumbles from his jumper in a rain of dust and rubble onto the floor. He feels too hot but the corridor is cold, and he’s shivering. Tim clears his throat, and sits up, and looks at his hands. He can just make out the shine of red tinting the liquid on his palms in the dark.

“Martin.”

“Here.” Martin’s voice is very soft, and weak. Tim’s head jerks to follow it, and he gets to his feet, crossing the space between them, half running to fall back down to his knees beside him. Martin is lying on his back on the floor. His breathing is shallow, and his hair is splayed out around his head. It’s almost silver in the dark. Blood is staining the ends of it and seeping around him in a creeping pool. He looks like he’s been taken from some terrible, beautiful painting and Tim ignores how cold the blood is when he kneels in it, trying to assess his wounds in the dark.

“Ok, so it would be stupid to ask if you were alright.”

Martin laughs, hoarsely, and then he flinches, clutching at the holes above his ribcage. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. And then another. And another. Then he looks up at Tim. “Are you? You…you really lost it, for a minute there.”

Tim clenches his teeth and counts to ten. He wants to imagine a world where Martin hated him. Where Martin was angry. Where Martin never met the person that made him believe that other people’s pain took precedence over his own. That Martin Blackwood would not, whilst lying bleeding on the floor, worry about another man crying. But he doesn’t live in that world, and Martin Blackwood deserves better than Tim Stoker but Tim Stoker’s all he’s got, and Tim will be damned if he won’t make that be enough.

So he reaches out, and he wraps his hand around Martin’s. Martin’s fingers are too weak when he squeezes back. “Don’t worry about me, alright? What…where does it hurt?”

Martin shuts his eyes. “Will you judge me if I say everywhere?”

Tim thinks about Michael, its fingers tangled in Martin’s hair, talking about humiliation. He squeezes Martin’s hand, maybe too hard, and Martin stares up at him. Tim meets his eyes, and tries to tell him everything he needs to say. “Martin. I’m never, ever going to judge you for this. Hell, if anything I respect you more.”

Martin’s expression folds, and Tim can see his cheeks darkening in the low light as he tries to pull his hand back. “Tim, you don’t need to - ”

Tim’s fingers tighten around Martin’s hand. And maybe there’s an irrational part of his brain that says that nothing is as important as making sure that he never lets go of Martin again. But he’s trying to ignore that, so instead he offers the smile he’s been told is winning, and shrugs. “I mean, you can swear now, apparently, so that’s already put you up in my personal esteem. Could be as cool as Sasha one day, if you really put your back into it.”

Martin wheezes when he laughs, and Tim tries not to worry about that. But then he looks back at Tim, and squeezes his fingers a little more tightly, and raises his other hand to flip him off. “You’re a cunt.”

Tim laughs: long and loud and honest, and Martin giggles too, clutching at his ribs with one hand as he does it, holding Tim with the other.

And for a moment, in hell, Tim can imagine a world where they’re going to be ok.


End file.
